The message arrived without ceremony, announced only by a simple beep from a datapad that was resting beside him.
It did not pass through the Senate’s official channels, nor did it carry the seals of the Republic intelligence services. It came instead through the quiet web Ravion Corvalis had spun across the Republic Worlds, a series of indebted officials, frightened clerks, private couriers and ambitious little creatures who understood that information became valuable only when placed in the correct hands.
The single line appeared after the announcement;
DOMINIC PRAXON HAS RETURNED TO NABOO. ALIVE.
Ravion read it once and then he read it again. The third time he took it in and annoyingly, the words had not changed.
Beyond the towering windows of his office, Denon burned with artificial light. Endless streams of traffic wound between the buildings, indifferent to the sudden tightening in his chest. Somewhere below, the machinery of the Republic continued through the night, the very reason he was here, overseeing the latest in clone shipments being authorised by the Senate. As much as he used the term Denon Dependency it was here that committees gathered, this world that deals were being made. On Naboo other senators would be currently sleeping soundly beneath guarded roofs, convinced that tomorrow would resemble today.
Ravion placed the datapad upon his desk with exaggerated care, fully aware that tomorrow was now fatefully as far from today as it could ever be.
“Alive,” he said.
Kayrce stood near the windows, little more than a slender silhouette against the sprawling city. Blue skin turned almost silver beneath the reflected lights, while the red of her eyes remained fixed upon the traffic below.
“So it would appear.”
“They said Outbound was lost.”
“They said there had been an attack.”
“They said there were no survivors.”
“They said many things.” Kayrce turned, folding her hands neatly before her. “People often do when they are frightened and uninformed.”
“Your people said it would be sorted.” The accusation struck harder than Ravion had intended, but once spoken he found himself unwilling to withdraw it. Kayrce regarded him across the office, her expression becoming perfectly still.
“My people?”
“The assurances came through your channels. Dominic was the price for me doing what HE wanted. You assured me the expedition would not return.”
“No,” she said. “I told you that certain parties had taken an interest in Outbound. I told you that its departure created an opportunity. What you chose to hear was that there was a promise that Dominic Praxon would conveniently disappear.”
“You knew what I wanted.”
“Yes.”
The ease of the answer stopped him, a very rare moment of silence followed as Kayrce crossed the room slowly, every measured step forcing Ravion to hold his ground.
“And because I knew what you wanted, Magistrate, I advised patience. Instead, you placed Praxon aboard that expedition with all the subtlety of a public execution and then convinced yourself that distance absolved you of consequence.”
“Your people failed. HIS people failed”
“They are not my people.” Her voice did not rise. It sharpened. “Do not confuse those who provide information with those who swear obedience. Do not mistake my counsel for a promise, and never again attempt to place the cost of your ambition at my feet simply because you lack the courage to carry it yourself.”
The silence that followed felt suddenly dangerous.
Ravion’s fingers tightened around the datapad. For a fleeting moment he remembered that Kayrce was not some frightened Senate aide whose career existed at his pleasure. There were depths behind those red eyes into which he had never been invited to look.
Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, the severity left her.
“Dominic Praxon is alive,” she continued. “Blame will not alter that. Panic will only make certain he knows whom to suspect.”
The Outbound mission had been meant to remove Dominic Praxon from the board. Not permanently, perhaps; Ravion had never been foolish enough to place such desires into words, but long enough. Long enough for Naboo’s influence to be weakened. Long enough for critical votes to pass without Praxon’s interference. Long enough for the Senate to grow accustomed to his absence.
A vacancy, Ravion had learned, became legitimacy if allowed to remain vacant for sufficient time.
He moved towards the drinks cabinet and poured without offering one to Kayrce. The decanter struck the rim of the glass, sending a sharp crystalline note through the room.
“There are rumours,” he said. “The expedition failed. That they found nothing. That the ships were scattered.”
“Rumours are generous things. They become whatever the listener requires.”
“And what do I require them to be?”
“That depends. Do you require reassurance, Magistrate, or the truth?” Kayrce watched him take the first drink and glare at her over the glass making her smile faintly.
The report offered little beyond the confirmation. Praxon had been returned to his family estate under heavy guard. There had been no public announcement from the Naboo delegation, no triumphant appearance before the press. Physicians had been summoned. Members of the family had arrived and departed beneath a security cordon.
That should have pleased him.
Instead, it made everything worse.
A healthy Dominic Praxon was a political inconvenience. A wounded Dominic Praxon was a symbol. A tortured Dominic Praxon was a weapon waiting for someone else to point.
Ravion crossed to the desk and opened the other reports his agents had gathered. Fragments appeared in rapid succession. Missing vessels. Conflicting accounts. Jedi movements concealed behind military classifications. Whispers of survivors brought back from somewhere beyond mapped space.
Whispers of enemies the Republic had believed dead.
“One Month,” Ravion murmured. “He was gone for one month.”
“Long enough to see something.”
“Long enough to invent something.”
“Does the distinction matter?”
He looked up sharply.
Kayrce approached the desk, one measured step at a time. She never hurried. That was one of the things he admired about her, though in that moment it made him want to seize her by the shoulders and demand something more urgent than composure.
“If Praxon speaks,” she continued, “the Senate will listen. Not because they trust him, but because fear makes attentive audiences of even the stupidest men.”
“He has no evidence.”
“He returned alive from an expedition others believe destroyed. Survival will be treated as evidence enough.”
Ravion drained the glass he had just refilled.
The Outbound had been useful when it was distant. A grand venture, conveniently removing idealists, troublesome Jedi and Dominic Praxon from the capital at precisely the moment Ravion required room to manoeuvre. Its failure should have buried whatever had occurred with it.
Instead, it had now returned one of his enemies to Naboo wearing the scars of a martyr.
“He will come back to the senate.”
“Eventually.”
“He will accuse me.”
“Perhaps.”
“He will know.”
Kayrce’s expression barely shifted. “Know what?”
The question settled between them enough for Ravion to place the glass down too hard. A hairline fracture crawled across its base.
He had signed nothing. Ordered nothing. There was no document, no recording, no servant who could truthfully claim that Ravion Corvalis had demanded Dominic Praxon’s death. He had merely recognised an opportunity. He merely encouraged a posting. Applied pressure where pressure had already existed.
Politics was the art of ensuring that consequences arrived without instructions.
Yet the thought of Dominic upon Naboo, surrounded by physicians and family, assembling whatever remained of himself, brought no comfort. After all, Men who survived captivity did not return unchanged. However Sometimes they returned afraid and sometimes they returned grateful simply to be alive. Ravion’s true hope that this wasn’t sometimes they returned with nothing left in them but the name of the person they blamed.
Ravion moved to the window. His reflection met him in the glass, pale and distorted against the city.
“What else?” he asked.
Kayrce allowed the silence to stretch before answering.
“There are reports that the Jedi believe the expedition discovered something.”
“What?”
“A weapon.”
Ravion turned towards the Chiss “What kind of weapon?”
“The reports disagree. Some describe it as capable of being useful against the Sith.”
“Absurd.” For a moment he simply stared at her. Then a short, brittle laugh escaped him.
“Certainly.”
“There is no weapon that can destroy that singular particular piece of the puzzle.”
“Then there is nothing to concern you.”
Her agreement was too smooth and Ravion found himself hating her for it. He returned to the desk and swept through the reports, searching for certainty where none existed. A failed expedition. A returned senator. Jedi secrecy. Rumours of a superweapon. Each fragment was useless alone, yet together they formed the outline of something immense moving just beyond his sight.
Dominic had been there. Dominic might know where it was. Dominic might know why the Outbound had failed. Dominic might know that Ravion had helped send him.
“He cannot be allowed to address the Senate.”
Kayrce’s eyes narrowed with quiet interest.
“Not yet,” Ravion added. “Not until we know what he intends to say.”
“Naboo will protect him.”
“Then Naboo must be persuaded that his protection requires silence.”
“And if they cannot be persuaded?”
Ravion hesitated. It was only a moment, but Kayrce saw it. She always saw it.
“There are mechanisms,” he said. “The Security Council can restrict testimony concerning classified expeditions. The Senate may establish a commission. Praxon could be detained for debriefing.”
“By whose authority?”
“Mine!” He lost his cool for a moment, catching himself as the faintest curve touched Kayrce’s lips. Her face told it all; there it was. The thought she had been waiting for him to reach.
Ravion began issuing orders. His agents on Naboo were to identify every visitor to the Praxon estate. Communications leaving the property were to be intercepted where possible. The Senate clerks would receive notice that any petition submitted under Dominic’s name was to be delayed pending authentication.
Another message went to the customs authority.
A hold was placed against Praxon’s diplomatic clearances on order of the Magistrate. It was listed as temporary, Ravion told himself that was good enough. It was a precautionary, a clear and legal enough order, provided nobody examined the sequence too closely.
“His family will notice,” Kayrce said.
“Let them.”
“The Jedi will notice.”
“Then give them something else to look at.”
She inclined her head. “The rumours surrounding Outbound?”
“Feed them. Contradict them. I don’t care. Tell one outlet the mission was destroyed by navigational failure. Tell another there was a mutiny. Give the military evidence of piracy and the Jedi some evidence of your people’s involvement. By the time Praxon speaks, no one will know which story they are meant to believe.”
“And Praxon himself?”
Ravion’s hand hovered above the datapad. He thought of the Senate chamber. Of Dominic standing beneath its lights, diminished by captivity yet elevated by it. He imagined the silence before Praxon spoke Ravion’s name.
His finger lowered.
“Find out how ill he is.”
Kayrce did not move.
“And if he is recovering?”
The sensible answer came first. Prepare a defence. Gather allies. Distance himself from the Outbound mission and allow procedure to smother accusation beneath months of hearings, but sensible decisions belonged to men who still believed they possessed time.
Ravion looked again at the message.
ALIVE.
“Then ensure his recovery remains difficult.” The order entered the room softly yet once spoken, it seemed to change the air.
Kayrce moved behind him, close enough that her voice reached only his ear.
“You should be careful, Magistrate. Fear has ruined men far greater than Dominic Praxon.”
Ravion stared at the illuminated surface of the desk. “I am not afraid of Praxon.”
“No,” the Chiss whispered. “Of course not.”
Her hand came to rest upon his shoulder, light and reassuring, almost affectionate in her touch. That was how she kept it there while Ravion composed the next order and that was how she guided his hand when he sent it.
It did not pass through the Senate’s official channels, nor did it carry the seals of the Republic intelligence services. It came instead through the quiet web Ravion Corvalis had spun across the Republic Worlds, a series of indebted officials, frightened clerks, private couriers and ambitious little creatures who understood that information became valuable only when placed in the correct hands.
The single line appeared after the announcement;
DOMINIC PRAXON HAS RETURNED TO NABOO. ALIVE.
Ravion read it once and then he read it again. The third time he took it in and annoyingly, the words had not changed.
Beyond the towering windows of his office, Denon burned with artificial light. Endless streams of traffic wound between the buildings, indifferent to the sudden tightening in his chest. Somewhere below, the machinery of the Republic continued through the night, the very reason he was here, overseeing the latest in clone shipments being authorised by the Senate. As much as he used the term Denon Dependency it was here that committees gathered, this world that deals were being made. On Naboo other senators would be currently sleeping soundly beneath guarded roofs, convinced that tomorrow would resemble today.
Ravion placed the datapad upon his desk with exaggerated care, fully aware that tomorrow was now fatefully as far from today as it could ever be.
“Alive,” he said.
Kayrce stood near the windows, little more than a slender silhouette against the sprawling city. Blue skin turned almost silver beneath the reflected lights, while the red of her eyes remained fixed upon the traffic below.
“So it would appear.”
“They said Outbound was lost.”
“They said there had been an attack.”
“They said there were no survivors.”
“They said many things.” Kayrce turned, folding her hands neatly before her. “People often do when they are frightened and uninformed.”
“Your people said it would be sorted.” The accusation struck harder than Ravion had intended, but once spoken he found himself unwilling to withdraw it. Kayrce regarded him across the office, her expression becoming perfectly still.
“My people?”
“The assurances came through your channels. Dominic was the price for me doing what HE wanted. You assured me the expedition would not return.”
“No,” she said. “I told you that certain parties had taken an interest in Outbound. I told you that its departure created an opportunity. What you chose to hear was that there was a promise that Dominic Praxon would conveniently disappear.”
“You knew what I wanted.”
“Yes.”
The ease of the answer stopped him, a very rare moment of silence followed as Kayrce crossed the room slowly, every measured step forcing Ravion to hold his ground.
“And because I knew what you wanted, Magistrate, I advised patience. Instead, you placed Praxon aboard that expedition with all the subtlety of a public execution and then convinced yourself that distance absolved you of consequence.”
“Your people failed. HIS people failed”
“They are not my people.” Her voice did not rise. It sharpened. “Do not confuse those who provide information with those who swear obedience. Do not mistake my counsel for a promise, and never again attempt to place the cost of your ambition at my feet simply because you lack the courage to carry it yourself.”
The silence that followed felt suddenly dangerous.
Ravion’s fingers tightened around the datapad. For a fleeting moment he remembered that Kayrce was not some frightened Senate aide whose career existed at his pleasure. There were depths behind those red eyes into which he had never been invited to look.
Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, the severity left her.
“Dominic Praxon is alive,” she continued. “Blame will not alter that. Panic will only make certain he knows whom to suspect.”
The Outbound mission had been meant to remove Dominic Praxon from the board. Not permanently, perhaps; Ravion had never been foolish enough to place such desires into words, but long enough. Long enough for Naboo’s influence to be weakened. Long enough for critical votes to pass without Praxon’s interference. Long enough for the Senate to grow accustomed to his absence.
A vacancy, Ravion had learned, became legitimacy if allowed to remain vacant for sufficient time.
He moved towards the drinks cabinet and poured without offering one to Kayrce. The decanter struck the rim of the glass, sending a sharp crystalline note through the room.
“There are rumours,” he said. “The expedition failed. That they found nothing. That the ships were scattered.”
“Rumours are generous things. They become whatever the listener requires.”
“And what do I require them to be?”
“That depends. Do you require reassurance, Magistrate, or the truth?” Kayrce watched him take the first drink and glare at her over the glass making her smile faintly.
The report offered little beyond the confirmation. Praxon had been returned to his family estate under heavy guard. There had been no public announcement from the Naboo delegation, no triumphant appearance before the press. Physicians had been summoned. Members of the family had arrived and departed beneath a security cordon.
That should have pleased him.
Instead, it made everything worse.
A healthy Dominic Praxon was a political inconvenience. A wounded Dominic Praxon was a symbol. A tortured Dominic Praxon was a weapon waiting for someone else to point.
Ravion crossed to the desk and opened the other reports his agents had gathered. Fragments appeared in rapid succession. Missing vessels. Conflicting accounts. Jedi movements concealed behind military classifications. Whispers of survivors brought back from somewhere beyond mapped space.
Whispers of enemies the Republic had believed dead.
“One Month,” Ravion murmured. “He was gone for one month.”
“Long enough to see something.”
“Long enough to invent something.”
“Does the distinction matter?”
He looked up sharply.
Kayrce approached the desk, one measured step at a time. She never hurried. That was one of the things he admired about her, though in that moment it made him want to seize her by the shoulders and demand something more urgent than composure.
“If Praxon speaks,” she continued, “the Senate will listen. Not because they trust him, but because fear makes attentive audiences of even the stupidest men.”
“He has no evidence.”
“He returned alive from an expedition others believe destroyed. Survival will be treated as evidence enough.”
Ravion drained the glass he had just refilled.
The Outbound had been useful when it was distant. A grand venture, conveniently removing idealists, troublesome Jedi and Dominic Praxon from the capital at precisely the moment Ravion required room to manoeuvre. Its failure should have buried whatever had occurred with it.
Instead, it had now returned one of his enemies to Naboo wearing the scars of a martyr.
“He will come back to the senate.”
“Eventually.”
“He will accuse me.”
“Perhaps.”
“He will know.”
Kayrce’s expression barely shifted. “Know what?”
The question settled between them enough for Ravion to place the glass down too hard. A hairline fracture crawled across its base.
He had signed nothing. Ordered nothing. There was no document, no recording, no servant who could truthfully claim that Ravion Corvalis had demanded Dominic Praxon’s death. He had merely recognised an opportunity. He merely encouraged a posting. Applied pressure where pressure had already existed.
Politics was the art of ensuring that consequences arrived without instructions.
Yet the thought of Dominic upon Naboo, surrounded by physicians and family, assembling whatever remained of himself, brought no comfort. After all, Men who survived captivity did not return unchanged. However Sometimes they returned afraid and sometimes they returned grateful simply to be alive. Ravion’s true hope that this wasn’t sometimes they returned with nothing left in them but the name of the person they blamed.
Ravion moved to the window. His reflection met him in the glass, pale and distorted against the city.
“What else?” he asked.
Kayrce allowed the silence to stretch before answering.
“There are reports that the Jedi believe the expedition discovered something.”
“What?”
“A weapon.”
Ravion turned towards the Chiss “What kind of weapon?”
“The reports disagree. Some describe it as capable of being useful against the Sith.”
“Absurd.” For a moment he simply stared at her. Then a short, brittle laugh escaped him.
“Certainly.”
“There is no weapon that can destroy that singular particular piece of the puzzle.”
“Then there is nothing to concern you.”
Her agreement was too smooth and Ravion found himself hating her for it. He returned to the desk and swept through the reports, searching for certainty where none existed. A failed expedition. A returned senator. Jedi secrecy. Rumours of a superweapon. Each fragment was useless alone, yet together they formed the outline of something immense moving just beyond his sight.
Dominic had been there. Dominic might know where it was. Dominic might know why the Outbound had failed. Dominic might know that Ravion had helped send him.
“He cannot be allowed to address the Senate.”
Kayrce’s eyes narrowed with quiet interest.
“Not yet,” Ravion added. “Not until we know what he intends to say.”
“Naboo will protect him.”
“Then Naboo must be persuaded that his protection requires silence.”
“And if they cannot be persuaded?”
Ravion hesitated. It was only a moment, but Kayrce saw it. She always saw it.
“There are mechanisms,” he said. “The Security Council can restrict testimony concerning classified expeditions. The Senate may establish a commission. Praxon could be detained for debriefing.”
“By whose authority?”
“Mine!” He lost his cool for a moment, catching himself as the faintest curve touched Kayrce’s lips. Her face told it all; there it was. The thought she had been waiting for him to reach.
Ravion began issuing orders. His agents on Naboo were to identify every visitor to the Praxon estate. Communications leaving the property were to be intercepted where possible. The Senate clerks would receive notice that any petition submitted under Dominic’s name was to be delayed pending authentication.
Another message went to the customs authority.
A hold was placed against Praxon’s diplomatic clearances on order of the Magistrate. It was listed as temporary, Ravion told himself that was good enough. It was a precautionary, a clear and legal enough order, provided nobody examined the sequence too closely.
“His family will notice,” Kayrce said.
“Let them.”
“The Jedi will notice.”
“Then give them something else to look at.”
She inclined her head. “The rumours surrounding Outbound?”
“Feed them. Contradict them. I don’t care. Tell one outlet the mission was destroyed by navigational failure. Tell another there was a mutiny. Give the military evidence of piracy and the Jedi some evidence of your people’s involvement. By the time Praxon speaks, no one will know which story they are meant to believe.”
“And Praxon himself?”
Ravion’s hand hovered above the datapad. He thought of the Senate chamber. Of Dominic standing beneath its lights, diminished by captivity yet elevated by it. He imagined the silence before Praxon spoke Ravion’s name.
His finger lowered.
“Find out how ill he is.”
Kayrce did not move.
“And if he is recovering?”
The sensible answer came first. Prepare a defence. Gather allies. Distance himself from the Outbound mission and allow procedure to smother accusation beneath months of hearings, but sensible decisions belonged to men who still believed they possessed time.
Ravion looked again at the message.
ALIVE.
“Then ensure his recovery remains difficult.” The order entered the room softly yet once spoken, it seemed to change the air.
Kayrce moved behind him, close enough that her voice reached only his ear.
“You should be careful, Magistrate. Fear has ruined men far greater than Dominic Praxon.”
Ravion stared at the illuminated surface of the desk. “I am not afraid of Praxon.”
“No,” the Chiss whispered. “Of course not.”
Her hand came to rest upon his shoulder, light and reassuring, almost affectionate in her touch. That was how she kept it there while Ravion composed the next order and that was how she guided his hand when he sent it.
